


it’s alright if it’s on your mind (‘cause it’s all i’m thinking all the time)

by safeandsound13sreputationera (safeandsound13)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Cheating kink, F/M, First Time, Jealousy, Kinktober, Loss of Virginity, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Trust Kink, age gap, babysitter!clarke, echo hate encouraged, hot dad!bellamy, impregnation kink if you squint like no tomorrow, kinky kinky tags incoming here we go, lowkey daddy kink, madi sweetie im so sorry you got all your dads genes xx, omg hashtag cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13sreputationera
Summary: Clarke has a stupidly embarrassing crush on the dad of the kid she babysits. When the cracks in his marriage start to show, she figures it's time to make a move.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 21
Kudos: 361
Collections: Bellarke smut





	it’s alright if it’s on your mind (‘cause it’s all i’m thinking all the time)

**Author's Note:**

> happy kinktober. 
> 
> this is a disclaimer kindly reminding you that if you dont like echo, this is the fic for you, welcome. hate in the comments strongely encouraged. DRAG HER TO FILTH!

.

Clarke first started babysitting for the Blakes when she was fifteen. Madi was still a pudgy little toddler then, who could only walk a few feet before falling over and could successfully be distracted with a set of keys for hours on an end. Back then, Clarke mostly just had to feed her fruit mush and entertain her long enough to tire her out before she got to just sit back and watch tv while the child slept. It was easy money.

Not that Clarke needed money. Her family was pretty well off, with her hotshot surgeon mother and her world renowned CEO stepdad, Marcus. The babysitting started out as more a favor to her stepdad, who didn’t think she should waste away her summer by their pool being irresponsible. Mr. Blake had been his right hand for over five years, and after he and his wife had the baby he rarely ‘relaxed’ anymore. It had gotten to the point Marcus couldn’t even get him to come over for celebratory after-work drinks, or even simply dinner with friends at their house. 

Besides, Clarke was a pretty responsible teenager. She had a 4.0 GPA, didn’t drink or smoke, sparsely spent the allowance she got and never on anything useless, preferred a night painting to an illegal party, and even took a first aid course. Her high school friends called her high strung, controlling and a goodie-two shoes all the time, but that kind of made her the perfect babysitter. 

Mr. Blake, though — he makes her want to be irresponsible. He’s not like Marcus’ other friends, who are mainly old and wrinkly. No, Bellamy Blake was recruited by her stepdad straight from community college and she knows they’re relatively close for a boss and employee relationship. He’s cool, and funny, and _really_ fucking sexy. 

She’d noticed him before at some of her parents’ stupid fancy parties, with his dark brown eyes. Clarke definitely noticed he was cute, but at that point she was too young to even really exactly understand what it meant. Understand what it meant that her hands went clammy when she watched him talk from across the room, or that her heart started pounding louder if he addressed her like she was just any of the other adults in the room, or the tension that started building at the apex of her thighs when he gave her that special, blinding smile. 

Clarke got older, and stopped being forced to attend these parties, and then she kind of forgot about him. Eventually the babysitting job rolled in, and this time around, it only got worse. She was fifteen, and awkward, and _definitely_ as high strung as her friends called her, but she had a massive crush nonetheless. 

Madi is the greatest. She’s like her little friend, small and awesome. She’s smart, and loves drawing, and takes a lot of naps. The wife however? God, she’s the fucking worst. 

Clarke hates Echo. Not _just_ because of the aforementioned crush — she’s not a jealous or particularly possessive person and has no problem remaining objective. Clarke doesn’t like the way she treats Mr. Blake. Always snarling, and commanding, and pretending like he’s stupid. She even talks to Madi like she’s a burden, cutting off her stories and never showing her any affection. And one time after one of Marcus’ dinners, she heard her wine drunk mom whisper about them from where she was eavesdropping on the stairs. How her aunt disowned Echo from her own Fortune 500 company and how Bellamy was never in it for the long run with her, so she found a way to make a home out of a new company. Kane was never going to fire Bellamy’s wife, and Bellamy was never going to leave a wife of his if they had a child together. Marcus never openly agreed, but she could tell from the slight resentment in his answering hum that he _didn’t_ disagree. 

What kind of bitch has an innocent man’s baby knowing she hates children just to trap him in a loveless marriage that’s just a security plan to keep her boring office job? Besides, even at the risk of making her sound like a petty teenager, Clarke thinks she’s _way_ too ugly for Mr. Blake. He’s hot in an intimidating way, and has broad shoulders and bulging biceps, and cute freckles dotted all over his face, and messy dark curls she perpetually wants to run her hands through and beautiful brown skin that’s like it was bathed in sunlight. His deep, gravelly voice is like music to her ears, and shit, _his ass._ His ass is like it was shaped by the Gods themselves. Echo is tall. That’s it. 

Now it’s her first summer back from college and Clarke expected things to be different. Feel different maybe. She expected to have an entirely different world view, and to be more mature, and cultured, and just _changed_. Mostly, she feels exactly the same; a little lost, misunderstood, and terribly lonely. It makes her think of the only true friend she ever had, Wells, who used to always call her an old soul. Now they've grown apart, living separate lives, like always happens. 

It’s nice to know even her stupid crush on her stepdad’s friend is still very much alive. One off-hand mention of him pulling in some huge client over lunch and her stomach is flipping nervously, appetite suddenly gone. She feels kind of pathetic for it, but there’s not much she can do about it. She’s tried to forget about him, made an extensive list of why it would never happen, dated boys and girls, and even moved halfway across the country for a year, and none of it seems to work. 

Clarke _really_ tried. She got to the point where she almost let Finn fuck her on a very impulsive whim near the end of her senior year, just because Mr. Blake had laughed at one of her jokes in the car. He was driving her over to a party as an unnecessary thanks for staying later than they had agreed upon and missing the first half of it, and she said something stupid and totally unfunny, and there it was, taking her by surprise — deep, and dark, and a follow-up grin that had her panties fucking drenched to the point she was afraid he would smell her. Luckily she found out about Finn’s other girlfriend before _that_ epic mistake could happen, but it got her nowhere with Mr. Blake. She got horny over a five-second chuckle, for fuck’s sake. 

Before, she never wondered where Mr. Blake and his wife went. After all, the answer could only end up disappointing her. She doesn’t want to know about the romantic dates he takes that tall ogre on, or the probably non-PG rated reason why they ran so late. 

Her first afternoon back babysitting, spoons scraping the bottom of a tub of ice cream, without even lifting her dark head from Clarke’s shoulder or tearing her eyes off the television, Madi tells her, “Mommy and daddy are at therapy.”

Little kids are weird, Clarke has learned over the years. They lick random stuff, and get up at six am without prompting, and they overshare for no good reason. “Oh,” she says in response, heart pounding in her ears as she offers the kid the last small scoop of ice cream, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nope,” Madi claims, cheerily, shoving the spoon in her mouth as her eyes light up at something one of the cartoon characters on tv says. It’s as if she didn’t just turn Clarke’s entire world upside down. If they’re at therapy, that means things could be bad, and if things are _really_ bad, maybe — no. She shouldn’t even entertain that train of thought. 

Madi’s long asleep by the time Mr. Blake comes home, alone. He smiles in greeting and says a soft, whispered ‘hi’. He doesn’t offer an explanation for where his wife is, and Clarke doesn’t ask. He carries his daughter upstairs and into her pink bedroom, and Clarke pretends her stomach doesn’t do all these weird, dramatic flips watching him do it. He’s really strong, and so gentle with her, it makes something in the middle of her chest ache longingly. 

Watching him brush back Madi’s fringe from her eyes, without even thinking, Clarke blurts out, “How was therapy?” 

He turns to look at her over his shoulder, confused, and her cheeks heat up immediately as she flinches. She’s so stupid. How humiliating. “Sorry,” she squeaks out. “She told me.”

“She did, huh?’ He muses, absently, turning back to press a kiss to his daughter’s forehead before walking over to the door she was leaning against just a few moments ago, quietly shutting it behind him. He considers her for a long moment, having her use every last bit of her self-restraint in order not to squirm, before he says, “You want something to drink?”

She doesn’t, but she also doesn’t want to leave just yet. She likes spending time with him, and not just because of her unbearable, stupid crush. Clarke bites her bottom lip for a second, then answers, “Sure.”

She follows him back down towards the kitchen, resting both of her hands on the marble island as she watches him pour himself a glass of wine before holding up a bottle of apple- and grape juice in each hand for her to pick from. 

Clarke almost rolls her eyes, wondering if a sippy cup is next. As if she hasn’t gotten absolutely piss-drunk on wine coolers on a Friday night before. Whatever. “I know I couldn’t even spell alcohol when I first started coming over here, but I have drank before, you know that, right?”

“You’re still not getting a drop from me until your brain is fully developed,” Mr. Blake rebukes, authoritatively enough for her to know there’s no room for argument. A slow smile spreads across his face, raising his eyebrows at her, a challenge hidden within his brown eyes. “What’s it going to be?”

  
She shouldn’t, but she likes pushing him. Clarke huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, petulant, and if it presses her breasts together in an absolutely sinful way so be it. “Like you didn’t drink before you turned twenty-one.”

He puts the two bottles down on the counter, switching them out for his glass of wine, swallowing down a few generous gulps before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes never stray from her face, obviously amused with her, and a small part of Clarke stupidly hopes that it means that if he allows himself to look he might give in. “I did, and look at how I turned out.”

For a moment, Clarke forgets she’s trying to seduce him, a flare of annoyance overwhelming any lingering amount of common sense, and just bites back, “So you’re trying to prevent me from becoming the next poster child for hypocrites? How noble.”

Her heart leaps, settling in her throat as she anxiously awaits his reaction. Then he laughs, and her skin prickles excitingly, almost proud. “Come on.” Mr. Blake pushes one of the bottles forward on the counter, smirking slightly. “I know this is a real modern day Sophie’s Choice, but I believe in you.”

“Grape,” she relents begrudgingly through gritted teeth, before softening as she watches him give her a nod of approval before pouring her a generous serving of juice. She reaches out over the counter for the glass, taking a small sip as she stews it over while he returns both bottles to his large fridge. She probably owes him an apology. “I’m really sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine,” he brushes her off casually, even if he does polish off his wine. It stains his lips a dark red before his tongue dips out to swipe across, and Clarke finds herself mesmerized. His nostrils flare before he reaches up with one of his big hands to rub at his temples with his thumb and index finger. “Echo never wanted kids. Madi, she was an accident.” He throws his head slightly back, groaning softly, a dark rumble that has her swallow tightly as she presses her knees together. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.” His eyes flit up to meet hers, apologetic. “It’s probably inappropriate.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke says, hastily, desperate to be seen as someone mature enough to have a serious conversation like this with. She’s in college after all, now, and she can’t screw this up when he’s finally opening up to her about things that aren’t just her last volleyball match or a Netflix documentary he thought she’d like. The _real_ stuff. She wants him to confide in her. “For what it’s worth, she’s an amazing girl.”

“She is,” Mr. Blake agrees, his eyes at first gleaming with something sad and broken that has her breath hitch, before it gives way to something more reverential, teasing. “She adores you. You’re all she talks about.” He chuckles, soft. “She’s convinced you two are best friends.”

“I love her too,” she admits, genuine, ducking her head bashfully. He must think she’s such a suck-up, but Clarke actually kind of missed her while she was away. She’s five already, growing up way too fast. “You know, Mr. Blake—”

“You can call me Bellamy,” he cuts her off, amused, as if this isn’t exactly what she wanted to happen. “Mr. Blake makes me feel ancient.”

“You _are_ ancient,” she retorts tauntingly, smiling coyly, even if she is mentally cursing herself as soon as the words leave her lips. Reminding him of their age gap probably isn’t the best way to get him to leave his adult wife and fuck her instead. To her surprise, he doesn’t blink, or blanch, or even look disgusted. 

“Ouch,” _Bellamy_ says, mockingly pressing a hand over his chest as if actually hurt. He’s only thirty-four, after all, he should know she’s only teasing him. “Here I was thinking I was hip enough for you not to notice.”

Clarke snorts, and folding her free hand into the crook of the elbow of the arm holding her grape juice, and this time she does catch his eyes dipping down to her cleavage for the briefest of seconds. She watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down heavily, stifling a smug smirk herself. He’s not wiping the counter clean to take her on top of it yet, but it’s solid progress. “Your first mistake is using the word ‘hip’ in 2020.”

He laughs again, making warmth spread across her chest, and she is desperately trying to find a way to segue back into his marital problems that isn’t too obvious. To her disappointment, he ends up changing the subject before she can, asking her about her college experience and the classes she’s taking. Clarke figures they have to work up to it, build a little more trust in the fact she’s not just Marcus’ step-daughter or Madi’s babysitter anymore. She could be his friend, or his something more. 

Either way, Clarke’s not too worried, his marriage seems like a ticking time bomb and she has all summer. She’ll wear him down.

.

Clarke’s on the floor on her knees, picking up Madi’s toys when the door loudly slams open, shaking the large windows of the Blake house. Echo storms in, yelling insults and stomping up the stairs before throwing what Clarke assumes is their bedroom door shut. It’s forcefully enough that something clatters to the floor and shatters. 

Once she slowly turns back into the direction of the entrance, she comes eye to eye with Bellamy’s crotch, standing directly in front of her. This almost startles her more than the sudden, loud and unexpected intrusion of the house. _Fuck_. She tilts her head back, raising her chin slowly, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. 

His eyes darken imperceptibly before he shakes his head lightly, lowering himself to the floor across from her. Maybe he’s just angry with his wife, not thinking about Clarke sucking his dick like she just was. Mr. — Bellamy silently starts to help her put Madi’s crayons and stuffed animals back into the green storage box on the floor beside them. 

“Sorry you had to see that,” he says, apologetic, gaze fixated on his hands as they work. 

“That’s okay,” Clarke tells him, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She sits back, resting her hands on top of her thighs. She’s wearing high-waisted jeans and a pink wrap sweater, no make-up and her hair pulled back, mostly because she never bothers dressing up before coming here. At least not in the way Abby prefers her to. Clarke doesn’t care much for appearances, but it makes her home life easier, and for that, sometimes she put in the effort. For Kane’s company’s Christmas mixer, or a guy or girl her mother thinks would be the perfect fit for her and then spends the whole date talking about the stock market. With Mr. Blake, it’s always been different. She feels at ease with him, no matter how she does or doesn’t look. 

She hesitates, watching him as she worries her lip, Echo’s insults hurling through her head. _Selfish_. _Obsessed. Pathetic_. He doesn’t deserve any of that. Mr. Blake is a good husband and an even better father. Clarke should leave it alone, but she physically can’t. There’s a slight tremble in her voice, but she refuses to falter. “She shouldn’t talk to you like that.”

Over the years, Clarke has obviously noticed him — he’s hard not to. But she’s also _noticed_ him. Bellamy has gotten kind of apathetic. He used to have so much life in him, so _free_ and confident and big and passionate in everything he did or said, and year by year she’s watched his wife chip away at him, watched him get more reclusive and detached. It’s like Echo is sucking the life out of him.

“She thinks I’m too controlling,” he confesses quietly, scraping his throat as he curls his fingers around a piece of lego. The resignation in his voice breaks her heart. He actually believes her. “Echo — she likes being independent, doing her own thing.” Bellamy shrugs, casual, sitting back and rolling the plastic toy between his fingers before tossing it into the box. “I like taking care of people. Sometimes—” He pauses, finally raising his eyes to meet hers, uncertain and regretful. She sees lingering doubt there too, like he’s not sure he should be telling her this. He does anyway, settling on, “It’s not always a good match.”

What she wouldn’t give for him to take care of her. Clarke reaches for his hand where it’s resting on top of his thigh, covering it with hers. “I think she’s lucky to have you.” He doesn’t pull his hand away, his brown eyes intent on hers as his brow slowly starts to furrow. Her thumb swipes over his knuckles, bordering between supportive and affectionate. For a moment she imagines she can give him that same comfort, same ease as he gives her. She inhales sharply, scraping together every last bit of courage she has, tacking on, “In fact, I think you’re too good for her.”

Bellamy’s expression remains pensive, searching her eyes for something he apparently doesn’t find. The silence between them grows thick, and Clarke wants to look away, she _should_ look away, but she doesn’t want to give in either. She doesn’t know why, or how, but it would feel like unconsciously proving him right. That maybe she isn’t ready for more. Her pulse flutters erratically and impatiently in her neck, waiting for him to say something, anything. He turns his hand around so they’re palm to palm, his big hand engulfing hers completely. She barely has a second to register the contrasting sight, the feel of his warm skin, before he’s pulling away, being wrestled to the ground by a tiny, excited force of power. 

“Daddy!” Madi exclaims, flinging herself around his neck before Clarke even has enough time to open her mouth and tell her to take off her muddy rain boots. 

“Hey sweetheart,” he murmurs into her full head of mussed hair, but it sounds off, too rough. 

Madi settles in between her dad’s legs, leaning back against his chest. “Clarke, are you staying for dinner?” Almost singing, she skillfully argues, “It’s pizza day!”

It’s not like her to say no to pizza, but unconsciously she looks at him, as if awaiting approval. 

“She can’t,” Bellamy answers for her, and Clarke tries to meet his gaze, but he avoids it. Irritation flares inside of her, but it’s quickly replaced by satisfaction, watching his jaw clench briefly. He’s _affected_ , and it scares him. “Maybe some other time, okay?”

“Okay,” Madi echoes, pouting, sending Clarke her big, blue puppy eyes as if trying to pursue her to rethink her offer anyway. Clarke could say she changed her mind, that her plans were cancelled and she can stay anyway. It could be another little push, see how far she can take this before he calls her out on it. Clarke doesn’t want to move too fast, scare him off, make him think this is just some summer fling to her, something dangerous and rebellious to break through the boredom of the slur that is her regular life or stick it to her mother. Besides, it’s not really any fun if his stupid wife is there too. Presuming she eats, and doesn’t just feed off the misery of others. 

She throws the last toy car in the box, rising to her feet. She dusts off the back of her jeans with one hand, pinching Madi’s nose playfully with the other. “Sorry. My mom already made dinner.”

“Whatever,” the small child says, not sounding too upset, leaning forward to rummage through the storage box to probably find a replacement friend. Another funny thing about kids is that one minute you’re their everything, and the next you might as well be dead. 

“I’ll try not to be offended by that,” Clarke mutters lowly, self-deprecatingly, and this time Belllamy finally meets her eye, an amused smile cracking across his face as if it’s a private joke between adults. She sees the relief settle on his face in the seconds after, like maybe that moment between them was a one off and they can just go on pretending it never happened. 

No way, Mr. Blake. 

“See you on Friday.” Before starting for her shoes by the door and getting home, Clarke squeezes his shoulder in passing, something that could easily resemble a goodbye gesture between friendly acquaintances. Except, it’s not usually how _they_ say goodbye, and they’re definitely not acquaintances. A thrill runs through her as he freezes under her touch, swallowing visibly as her fingers linger for a second longer than necessary. 

Giving him one last meaningful look, Clarke makes her way over to the coat rack by the door, slipping into her shoes. She can feel his eyes burning into her back, making her feel strangely hopeful. The line between being scared and being thrilled is thin, especially if you’re not careful treading it. If anything, she should know. 

.

Clarke wakes up on the couch from a pair of headlights streaming in through the living room windows. She groans, keeping her eyes firmly closed in the hope she can just fall back asleep. A minute later, the door slams open loudly and all hope is lost. She sits up carefully, watching Bellamy lead a completely drunk and half-passed out Echo up the stairs, stumbling loudly. 

_Classy act_ , Clarke thinks to herself, snorting. She would never dream of embarrassing him in public like that. She blinks at the darkness as she hears the quiet rumble of people moving around upstairs, squinting at the clock on the wall. 03:15. 

She settles back against the couch, doesn’t even hear him come back down the stairs, probably halfway to dozing off again, until he notes, “Hey, you’re awake.” His voice is soft and a bit breathy, and when she blinks open her eyes, she sees his eyebrows are raised in surprise. 

“Obviously,” she croaks out, thick with sleep and too disorientated to care about being polite. An awkward silence wraps around them. They both know his wife was anything but subtle just now, and she also thinks they both know she hates her.

With a small grunt, Clarke forces herself in a more upright position, reaching for the glass of water still on the coffee table from earlier to take a sip. 

Bellamy’s tongue dips out to wet his lips, rubbing the back of his neck. “I would apologize again for her behaviour, but..” He trails off. It doesn’t hold much weight when she has no intention of changing it.

She rubs at her eyes, a sleepy smile breaking across her face. “I’ll take one for having to see that.” There’s no denying Echo looked awful, normally sleek hair a mess on top of her head, mascara smudged under her eyes and her dress slipping down her shoulder in a decidedly non-sexy way.

“I think there’s no apology in the world to soften that blow to your retinas,” he teases back, just as easily, grinning brightly, and then suddenly he’s railing it in, as if realizing they’re being a bit too comfortable with each other, joking around about his wife. He scrapes his throat, running his hand through his dark curls before tugging on his ear a little nervously. “I, uh.. I can’t leave Madi alone to drive you home with Echo like that, but you can stay over in the guest room? If you want?” He crosses his arms over his chest and Clarke eyes his biceps appreciatively, the smooth brown skin covering his forearms, his strong, capable hands. She remembers holding it in hers, wonders what it would feel like palming her breast, covering her heat, pinning her down into a mattress. “I already texted Kane.”

“Sure,” she mumbles, forcing herself to tear her eyes away from his torso and up to his face. Not that that’s any better. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip briefly. “Thanks.”

It takes him another beat before he nods, then starts leading her upstairs. He shows her the guest bedroom, and the adjoining bathroom, then politely bids her goodnight without making eye-contact. Clarke feels herself smiling as she drops down on top of the expensive sheets, a little huff of endeared laughter spilling from her lips. He’s trying really hard to be respectful, it’s cute. 

She closes her eyes, still smiling. It’s only a minute before she hears loud, angry voices, startling her. They’re fighting, she realizes, pushing herself up onto her elbows. The master bedroom is far enough away for her to be unable to hear exactly what they’re saying, but her heart thrums loudly anyway, feeling like she’s intruding. 

The voices die down after a moment, a painful silence filling it’s place instead. Carefully, Clarke gets up from the bed, treading over towards the door. She pushes it open just enough to see Bellamy closing the door to Madi’s room, probably checking to see if she didn’t wake up from all the commotion. He catches her eye, his face falling as he realizes she _did_ hear. Without any hesitation, she opens the door to the guest room further, inviting him inside. 

“Are you okay?” Clarke asks, softly, watching him pace the room. It’s a genuine question, bedded in actual concern for his well-being. He might be incredibly hot, but she fell for him first. The person he is, kind and caring, incredibly selfless. The overbearing and insistent horniness followed later. She closes the door, hugging herself for warmth. 

His head snaps up, as if only now remembering she’s in the room too, sending her another apologetic look as he sinks down onto the bed. His hands grip the edge tightly, knuckles turning white. “I am. _Fuck_.” He shakes his head, eyes pleading and full of undeserved shame and sorrow, only highlighted by the lowlight of a street lamp outside. “I’m so sorry, Clarke.”

She hates Echo for holding this power over him. Clarke is not a homicidal person regularly, but if she could run Echo over with her car, she would. She would, for making Bellamy feel this way about himself, so low and insecure, acting like he’s just a shell of who he really is. Ashamed. He deserves someone — _something_ nice. 

Gently, she tells him, “There’s nothing to be sorry about.” She sits down on the bed beside him slowly before she takes the leap, covering his knee with her small hand. His dark eyes find hers, a few curls falling into them. If her voice is huskier than usual, it’s just her body’s response to being this close to him, so close to what she wants. Her fingers stroke the inside of his thigh, and a little rush of satisfaction electrifies her spine when he lets her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Bellamy shakes his head, just barely, holding her gaze. _Thank God._ She doesn’t want to talk either. Her hand slowly creeps up, moving closer and closer until suddenly his hand folds around her wrist, holding her in place.

“Clarke, what are you doing?” He bites sternly, voice dark, but there’s a certain tightness to it that has her push on. Show him exactly how willing she is. 

She looks at him through her lashes, scooting just that little bit closer until their legs are aligned, thighs pressed together. “I can make you feel good,” she vows, words like honey. Her pulse speeds up, as if reeling from the fact she’s doing this. “I promise,” she adds, holding his gaze so he can see how serious she is. 

Bellamy inhales shakily, but he lets her move her hand this time, although his fingers stay wrapped around her wrist. Her hands move further up until she’s palming his crotch, a strained noise rumbling deep inside his chest. He feels big, even just half-hard. 

“Wait,” he rasps, but does nothing to stop her. He seems out of breath, even though she’s barely done anything. Desperately straining, with the way his fingertips dig into the soft skin of her wrist, probably leaving marks. 

Clarke takes this as an incentive for more encouragement. “I’ve been practicing,” she reveals, gently tugging her arm loose so it allows her to sink down onto the floor, in between his knees. She keeps her eyes on his as she starts pulling her hair into a ponytail. “For you.”

Her name sounds wrecked, coming from his lips and now he’s no longer holding on to her, his fingers twist into the bed sheets instead, grasping on tightly. His knee jerks as she starts to unzip his pants, but still, he makes no effort to put a stop to it. He grits, “This isn’t right.”

Clarke doesn’t say anything, too preoccupied now that her fingers are slipping inside his boxers, pulling his cock free. It’s definitely big, thick and straight, and rapidly hardening in her hold. It’s a great dick, a phantom ache in her jaw already starting to form. There’s a surge of wetness between her thighs, and she leans up further on her knees, trying to get closer, eager, willing. 

“Seriously,” he groans, dark eyes narrowing. But then his hand flies into her hair as she presses a kiss to the head of his cock, running her tongue over the bead of precum leaking from the slit. It tastes salty, heady. “Kane — God, he would — we have to stop.”

Her stepdad. His wife. None of them matter. What matters is this, them. Clarke has always gotten what she wanted, and she wants _him_. 

She just hums, distracted, taking him in her mouth. Clarke loves giving head to the right person. The power, the control, trying to see how much the other person can take. Most of them were boys, not men, easy to please, quick to empty their load onto her tits or into her face without warning.

Bellamy is different. Not only does he last way longer, he never tries to force her, or buck up into her face out of nowhere. He’s in as much control as she is, but he lets her do her thing, lets her take care of him. She bobs her head up and down torturously slow, flattening her tongue against the base every time she moves back up. Collecting her own saliva mixed with his pre-cum, she spits it back out over his head, using it to slick him up. Her fingers grasp the part of him she can’t fit inside her mouth, working him up and down, a slight twist to her wrist every time she gets near the top. 

Clarke pays attention to the sounds he makes, every little grunt and groan going straight to her core, even though he’s trying hard not to make any at all. She doesn’t know if it’s because his wife is down the hall or if it’s a free-card to pretend he didn’t enjoy this as much as he does later when the guilt starts to settle in, but it just gives her a way to figure out what he _really_ likes even faster. 

He likes when she circles the tip with just her tongue, likes when she grips him as tight as possible near the top with her hand and then just makes short, fast up and down movements with her mouth wrapped around him, when she takes him as deep as she can and then hollows her cheeks, sucking hard. 

The carpet is scratchy under her knees, burning her skin, but she’s far past the point of caring. His breathing speeds up much like hers. She watches him through her lashes while she sucks him off; the way he squeezes his eyes shut, his slightly parted lips, his free hand digging into the mattress. She _enjoys_ watching him, seeing what she does to him, her panties more than damp by now. 

And when he’s near completion, he’s nothing but considerate. His hand tightens in her hair, trying to get her attention. “I’m close,” he breathes, all earlier uncertainty long gone by now and replaced by dark, blown pupils and flushed bronze skin. “Where do you want me to come?”

Clarke momentarily lets off him, continuing to work his hard, now glistening length with her left hand as she sends him a cheeky smile. “In my mouth. I wanna taste you.”

He just groans in response, this time keeping his eyes open and on hers. His gaze is so dark and intense her cunt clenches around nothing. At this point her ponytail is barely one, her mouth red, spit dripping down her chin, but still — “Fuck, you look so pretty,” he curses lowly, as if unable to help himself, unwrapping his hand from her hair to push the strands that escaped from her ponytail back from her bare face. 

Her whole body glows with the praise, with the affectionate touch, and she eagerly takes him back in her mouth, this time using both hands to pump him. It’s barely a minute before he stiffens beneath her, and just as she slightly runs her teeth along the underside, just teasing, he loses it, spurting down her throat. His face relaxes, jaw slackening and she feels proud she could do that for him. She swallows heartily, swiping a hand across her mouth after.

It’s quiet for a moment, just the sound of them breathing and the wind rustling the leaves of a nearby tree as the reality of what just happened settles between them. Clarke had hoped her blowjob blew enough of his mind to make him forget she’s the nineteen year old babysitter, but she knows better. Knows _him_ better.

He looks away from her, guilt flashing across his handsome face. Bellamy tucks himself back into his boxers, still breathing heavily. “Do you want me to…?”

She shakes her head, pressing her mouth together in a tight line, before crawling back onto the bed beside him. Clarke is incredibly wet, and throbbing with need, but this was about him, about making him feel good and she doesn’t want it to look like she just did it to be returned the favor. She leans her warm weight against his arm, her hand sliding over his lower abdomen. It grows taut under her hand, then relaxes. What she _really_ wants is a kiss, but she feels like it’s too soon to ask. 

He covers the hand resting on his middle, pulling it down into his lap. Sounding sincere and just slightly regretful, he presses, “We can’t do this again.”

“I know,” Clarke says, propping her chin onto his shoulder, even though she doesn’t agree. It’s only a matter of time before he gives in again and she’ll be waiting. Figuring she just sucked him off and he can’t very well reject a simple request without coming across as a complete ass, she allows herself to turn greedy. “Will you hold me until I fall asleep?”

She feels his gaze on her, but she keeps hers fixated on their hands. She’s afraid that if he looks at her right now, he might see what she’s been trying to hide so hard. There’s a few terse moments of silence before Bellamy finally allows, “Lay down.” 

Clarke crawls to the top of the bed, curling up on her side, one hand stuffed beneath the pillow she rests her head on. She hears him move before he slides in behind her, his arm banding around her waist with a heavy sigh. She might imagine his lips pressing a kiss into her hair, it’s that soft. Despite her body still thrumming with want, his scent is soothing and his warmth comforting, and she’s pulled under within minutes. 

In the morning, like predicted, he’s gone.

.

Clarke expected a little backsliding on his part. Obviously, he’s a good man and he won’t like the idea of cheating on his wife, no matter how bad she is for him. She figures there’s Madi to take into consideration too, and the fact there’s a healthy age gap between the two of them, and how for some fucked up reason he feels like he owes her stepdad something. 

She braces herself for a more businesslike attitude, maybe even a cold shoulder or the refusal to be alone in a room with her ever again, but there’s none of that. It delights her beyond reason, something that doesn’t happen often. Clarke _loves_ reason. Perhaps this means he was closer to initially giving in than she thought. Perhaps he’s just being nice, or overly confident in his own self-control. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Echo announces loudly, absolutely grating, the second she steps through the front door. She doesn’t even spare Clarke so much as a glance, nor wonder where her daughter is. “I expect you’ll take care of dinner.”

Bellamy takes his time hanging up his coat and toeing off his boots before he comes to sit on the plushy chair on her left. He opens his mouth, but she beats him to it. “She’s upstairs, putting on her doctor’s coat and treating all her stuffed animals.” Letting her eyes flit over the kitchen and the seemingly five year old tornado that’s passed through it and remembering the way Madi yawned all the way through bath time, she presses, “It’ll probably turn into a nap.”

He hisses, a bit remorseful as he adjusts to pull his wallet and phone from his back pocket, discarding them on the coffee table. “I hope she didn’t give you too much trouble.” His gaze lingers on the plate in the middle of the glass table, her and Madi’s second failed batch. “Sorry for all of—” He motions at the sad looking cupcakes, flinching good-naturedly. “This.”

“You’re lucky she’s a genius. If it wasn’t for her I think I’d have burned this whole place down.” She laughs, a silvery sound, ducking forward to grab one off the plate. She lifts one shoulder half-heartedly, spinning the cupcake around in her grip as she observes it. It really does look like shit. “They taste like ashes, but the frosting’s not too bad.”

Clarke offers it to him, looking at him from below her eyelashes as she scoots closer to the edge of the couch. A bit of frosting stains her knuckle, and if she moves even just an inch closer their knees would be touching. He takes the cupcake, if only to be polite, his eyes following her every move as she brings up her finger to lick it clean. Interesting. 

Innocently, she reaches for another cupcake, this time purposely dipping her finger in the pink frosting before reaching for her mouth. He catches her wrist before she does, staring into her eyes as he brings her finger to his own mouth. Clarke swallows tightly, pressing her knees together. Slowly, he takes her index finger into his mouth, sucking it clean. 

A small whimper escapes her lips, they hear the shower turn on upstairs, his pupils widen and then everything seems to move in fast motion. 

“Can I get you off?” He asks, rough, and Clarke finds herself nodding hastily, already moving back on the couch so she can lay down, the cupcake in her hand dropping onto their expensive imported rug. Bellamy kneels down in between her thighs with one of his knees, rubbing his hands up her sides.

For a moment he lingers above her, hair falling into his eyes, and she thinks he’s going to kiss her. Her heart throbs wildly against her ribcage, her pussy clenching in anticipation, but then he chickens out and ducks his head, mouthing down her neck instead. A flare of disappointment rises inside of her, but then he nips at her pulsepoint and she has other things on her mind. 

He’s fumbling with the button of her shorts while kissing and licking down her neck, and Clarke takes the opportunity to fish for more compliments. It’s not that she’s insecure about their last encounter — he came down her throat after all, what more did he want — it’s that she enjoys hearing it. “Last time,” she pants, digging her blunt nails into his ribs. “Did you not..?”

“What, no? Of course I did,” Bellamy immediately opposes, a throaty sound to his usual baritone as he pulls back enough to look at her. One of his big hands rests over her sternum, his eyes wide with desperation. “You did really good, Clarke, so good.” His free hand tugs on his hair in frustration, eyes glazing over with the memory briefly before his hand moves up her throat, resting right below her jaw as his thumb runs over her bottom lip. She’s trembling with excitement, breath hitching in the back of her throat. “ _God_ , you drove me insane, with your hands, your mouth, looking so sexy down on your knees for me.”

She gets greedy again, stifling a self-satisfied smirk. “Have you thought about me?”

Bellamy grunts, angling back down to nip at her jaw, nuzzling down the column of her neck before biting at the hard bone peaking out hard enough to hurt. It’s there against her collarbone, while combing her hair over her shoulder with his fingers, that he murmurs, “All the fucking time.”

She covers the hand gripping her hip with hers, slowly sliding it towards her soft stomach before moving their hands further down. “Good,” she says, stopping right over her mons. She wants his fingers. 

He managed to get the button unpopped before, so this time all he has to do is move the zipper down. Clarke’s entire body is humming, begging him to touch her. His fingers slip under the band of her blue boyshorts, sliding between her warm, slick folds. Groaning into her neck, as if needing a moment to collect himself, he tells her, “Fuck, you’re so wet, baby.” 

Oh. She likes that. _Baby_. She wants to be good. Earn it again. “It’s because of you,” she confesses, breathy, and instead of answering he sinks his teeth in the fleshy part of her breast, pulling a moan from her. A sound that finally seems to be the determining factor in the decision to pull her thin-strapped lilac top down underneath her bralette. Clarke's tits are actually too big to pull off a bralette which offers virtually no support, but she put it on with him in mind anyway. 

Her eyes flutter shut as one of his thick fingers pushes at her entrance, sliding inside while he mouths at her nipple through the material of her thin fabric. Clarke keens softly, one hand trailing up his back to curl into his hair, trying not to make too much noise. Lest their fun be cut short. 

Bellamy’s thumb brushes over her clit, sending a physical jolt up her spine. She feels his smile against her breast, so she tightens her fingers in his hair. Slowly, he starts pumping his finger in and out of her, his thumb a delicious drag against her bundle of nerves every time he does. 

Soon, she’s making soft, breathy sounds, begging, “More. Please. I need more.”

“Shh,” he cooes, pulling back to look at her as he adds another finger. “Be good for me.” Her mouth opens in a silent gasp as he immediately pushes in another one, holding her wide gaze as she gets used to the way he’s stretching her open. “Yeah, just like that. I’ll give you what you want, okay?”

Clarke nods fervently, forehead moving against his shoulder until he moves away. His head dips back down, nipping softly at where her nipple is peaking through the black lace while three of his thick, long fingers move in and out of her tight heat. She’s never been able to feel this full with her own fingers, never felt this good with anyone else who fumbled around there for a few minutes before she gave in and faked it. 

She bites down on her lip to keep from letting out a squeak as he curls his fingers upwards on the next thrust, then inhales shakily to catch her breath. Her skin feels tight, tension building and building, the muscles in her lower abdomen trembling uncontrollably. Her fingers desperately clasp at him, hips bucking into his palm, chasing her release. 

His fingers crook upwards again, thumb pressing down on her clit at the same time as he sucks his mouth over the pink bud straining against her bralette. Sensation sears her overheated body until it explodes, her orgasm bursting across her body. Her lungs stutter, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip to keep from the embarrassing noises threatening to spill from her, throwing her head back against their expensive decorative pillows. 

Clarke comes to when she starts to feel the butterfly sensations being pressed against her shoulder, slowly blinking her eyes open. Her cheeks are still flushed, chest still heaving, and her lip is slightly swollen from how hard she bit down on it. Her hand strokes the hair on the back of his skull, encouraging the little pecks he’s leaving across her skin, helping her heart rate slow down. It’s nice.

For a moment. Then the shower upstairs cuts off abruptly, and he scrambles back from her, into an upright position. Clarke rolls her eyes, slowly pushing herself up too. It’s not like the witch can teleport and she really liked his weight on top of her. 

“I’m sorry, Clarke. I shouldn’t have,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face and looking away guilty while she pulls the straps of her top back over her shoulders like her bralette isn’t still damp from his saliva. Like his fingers aren’t shiny from her fucking arousal. 

“Stop saying sorry when we both know you don’t mean it.” Clarke sits up, one leg folded under her ass as the other dangles off the side of the couch. She leans her weight on her shin with both hands as she inches closer to him. Her face right in front of his, close enough to count his freckles, watch his eyelashes flutter every time her hot breath fans out across his skin with every word. “I like it when you call me baby, Mr. Blake.”

He pretends, but she sees. She sees the slight darkening of his eyes, the way his jaw tightens and his fingers curl into fists at his sides. Bellamy narrows his eyes at her, although he doesn’t move back from her, toeing the line right there with her. Her pussy is already throbbing again, ready for more. “You’re not going to be trouble, are you?”

“I am,” Clarke relents, brattily, pushing up on her knees so she has the advantage of looming over him. She rests her hands on his shoulders, rubbing his chest soothingly before she tells him, “But don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

He turns his head away from her, as if talking to the wall is easier, his shoulders tensing. “This was a mistake. I don’t know what’s suddenly gotten into you—”

“Oh, right,” Clarke bites back, meanly, rolling her eyes as she digs her nails into his shoulders. She can deal with being called a desperate slut when the moment calls for it, but not a mistake. _This,_ feeling this good, his hands on her, his mouth on him, none of that was a mistake. “What are you going to tell your wife? That I slipped and fell on your fingers?” Her fingers trail down the middle of his chest, skating down his tight abdomen towards the bulge straining against his pants. 

“Enough,” Bellamy barks, low, swatting her hand away. His nostrils flare and she knows she’s gotten under his skin now. She also knows what he’s afraid of, and it’s not going to happen on her watch. “This isn’t a game, Clarke.”

“I know,” she promises, leaning forward to press her mouth against the hard line of his jaw. He lets her, even as she drags her lips toward his ear, taking the lobe in between her teeth. Her breath hot against his skin, his fingers curling tightly around the material of her top covering her side. “I don’t want to wreck your life, Bellamy. I want you to wreck me.”

His breath hitches, and then he’s clearing his throat, moving back from her. “This isn’t going to happen again,” Bellamy claims, but even he must be able to hear the trepidation in his own voice. Clarke shrugs cutely, falling back against the arm of the couch just as footsteps start to descend down the stairs. He’ll see. 

He’s a good man, but even good men have their weaknesses and she’ll gladly be his. 

.

Clarke has been over to their house to look after Madi when one of them was home before. Usually when Bellamy had a big project to work on, or Echo didn’t feel like living up to her motherly responsibilities. 

But, as aforementioned, that was _before_. Before Clarke got a taste. Before she realized how badly she wanted all of him to be hers. Things are different now.

By the time Madi’s worn out from jumping and dancing around for hours, Clarke realizes he’s been cooped up in his office most of the day. He’s barely come up for air, she only saw him once in the kitchen to get a refill for his coffee. 

Clarke feeds Madi some Minion-shaped mac and cheese, and then decides it’ll be kind of pathetic to knock on his door with the same dish. It’s a sure way to remind him of their glaring age difference, and that’s the last thing she wants. But, as it turns out, she doesn’t really have the skills or props to make him anything better when her mom’s personal chef isn’t around. So, after forcing Madi to brush her teeth and putting her to bed, she throws the mac and cheese into the microwave to heat it up. She tosses in a side-salad for good measure, and because a salad seems like the _mature_ choice, and then sucks it up, rapping a knuckle against the door to his office. 

It takes him a moment to open the door, and his smile is sweet when he realizes it’s her. He rubs at his eye, nearly knocking his glasses off as he steps aside to let her in. Those are new. The glasses. They’re adorable, but also kind of hot. Her mind is spinning with so many sexy professor-student fantasies she almost knocks her hip into his desk. 

Distracted, she puts the plate down, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly stupid as she looks around his office, biting the inside of her cheek as she lodges her thumbs into the back-pockets of her jeans. There’s a poster of some documentary on Ancient Rome on the wall, a framed picture of Madi on the book shelf in the corner, a drawing of their family courtesy of the child they share pinned to the message board above his expensive mahogany desk. For the first time since they started this, she wonders if she even has a place with him, in his life.

Clarke objectively knows she’s attractive. Sometimes she’s funny. And she’s smart, and she’s sure that whatever she ends up doing after college will be something she excels at. She’s not sure any of those things matter to a thirty-four year old with a wife and child. People want her, that’s for sure. Want things _from_ her — a college degree from an Ivy League, a way to get in her stepdad’s good graces, or her body. It’s made her edges sharp, hardened out her soft spots. She’s been called cold before, and unloveable. It’s never bothered her much before.

And then she looks at him and she _wants_ to be wanted, desired. She wants to be vulnerable. Taken care of. She wants him to hold her, to fight for her, to be proud of her. She wants to stop compartmentalizing and objectifying and overanalyzing and just — _feel_. Be. 

She’s not always sure he wants that too. 

“Minions?” He wonders, skeptical, unaware of her mental doom spiral. When Clarke pivots around, she sees him sitting on the chair by his desk, shoveling a spoon full of mac and cheese into his mouth. 

“Just say thank you like a regular person,” she snaps, but she sounds off, she knows she does. 

He gives her a teasing grin, nudging her ankle with his foot. “I’ll write Kraft a formal thank you letter for keeping the instructions easy to follow.”

Clarke lets out a huff of forced laughter and smiles, but it falters quickly, and he softens, pushing the plate back. He swallows his food tightly, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she nods, absent. She doesn’t know how to tell him she wants things she shouldn’t. Lust, that’s easy to explain. He’s hot, she’s full of hormones, it’s something anyone with basic deductive reasoning skills can figure out. Her desire to be more to him than that, to be more to Madi, to this life he’s built for himself when she’s barely even finished college — that isn’t as much. “It’s just—” She clamps her mouth shut, cutting herself off before she says something stupid. He tilts his head, an endearingly concerned look on his face. After a sharp inhale, she tries again. “Nothing.”

Bellamy sits up, hesitating. Then, he reaches out just briefly, skating his fingers along the side of her hand. “You can talk to me, you know.”

His eyes are impossibly soft on hers, and it makes her feel incredibly fond, which makes her feel even more conflicted. She takes a tentative step forward, until his knees are brushing against her thighs. When he doesn’t do anything, just keeps her gaze, she uses her clammy hands to lift up her skirt enough for her to put a leg on either side of him. 

“I don’t want to talk,” Clarke emphasizes with a rut of her pelvis against his, echoing him the first time they did this.

“Clarke,” he chastises without much heat, his big hands curling tightly around her hips to keep her in place. She already knows where he’s going to take this. Her mind races, much like her heart, trying to think of a way to avoid this whole self-hating, martyr act this time around.

“I’m a virgin,” she blurts out, watching his pupils darken as the weight of her words settles in. His blunt nails dig into the pale skin covering her hips, right where her sweater’s ridden up. 

“I thought you said you’d been practicing,” Bellamy argues, breathless. He’s hard beneath her. 

“Not _that_ ,” she corrects him, nosing at his jaw, before resting her forehead against the junction between his shoulder and collarbone. She let Finn do things to her she never should have, even went down on Lexa before that all went to shit, and has had her fair share of fun with anyone else who was willing, but she never had it in her to go further than a hurried handjob, or a messy blowjob. Clarke inhales sharply, taking comfort in his musky, earthy scent, the material of his burgundy crew neck scratchy against her cheek. Dragging her eyes back up to him, she confesses, “I’ve been saving that for you.”

He chuckles mirthlessly, short. “I find that hard to believe.” 

It takes her a second to realize he doesn’t mean it as an insult, but rather as a compliment. Like he cant believe no one’s beaten him to it. There’s been plenty of opportunities, Clarke just wasn’t interested. She fingers the collar of his shirt, “I knew you’d take care of me, the way I want to be taken care of.”

She bites down on her lip and undulates her hips again, causing him to grip down hard enough for it to hurt. _Good_ , she smirks. She wants him to leave marks. Clarke stares at his mouth, inching forward. It felt so good on her neck, even better on her tits. She wants a kiss, just one. 

Bellamy grunts, pulling her from her reverie. “I’m not going to kiss you, Clarke.”

Quickly, her eyes flit up to see he’s being serious, but not before backtracking once, lingering on his lips. Absently, she wonders, “Why not?”

His thumbs press into the v’s of her hips, insistent. “Because you haven’t been good.” 

Her head snaps back up again. So he does know. How badly she wants it. 

Clarke’s small hand snakes in between them, cupping the hard swell in his pants, knowing something _he_ wants too. For a second, he almost looks like he’s going to give in, but then his face shutters, hardening. “Stop,” Bellamy commands, stern, pulling her hand off his clothed cock. 

Her blue eyes narrow, trying to push his buttons as her arms cross over her chest. “If you don’t do it, I’ll find someone else who will.”

“You should,” he presses, genuine, a pained expression flashing across his face for just a second as his hands drop down to his sides. “It _should_ be someone else.”

She tilts her head back, searching his face. When she finds it blank, she insists, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. If it’s me, you’re gonna look back on this in ten years and regret it,” Bellamy reasons, as if that actually makes any sense. Anger flares through her, heat coursing through her veins. 

“No,” she exclaims, pushing herself off him and up to her feet. She shakes her head vehemently, shoving her sweater down uselessly. She refuses. Tears prick at the back of her eyes, but she won’t believe him. Not when she’s seen the way he looks at her when he thinks she won’t notice. “ _No_.”

He gets this mean look on his face, a mix of rage and frustration, hands limp on his thighs. Her eyes plead with him, but he won’t look at her. Clarke hand twitches at her side, wanting to reach out, to run her fingers over his cheekbone, or crawl into his arms. It starts to dawn on her that might never be a reality she can live in. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to look at her while he says it, “I don’t _want_ it to be me.”

Clarke swallows, hard, trying to disperse the dryness from her mouth. Her heart speeds up and then comes to a sudden stop, shattering. “You don’t mean that either.” 

Her voice sounds pathetic, almost begging. It’s humiliating. Desperate, weak, pleading for him to what? Revoke his words? Take her virginity? _Love her back?_ She’s just their babysitter, his boss’ stepdaughter. Clarke can’t breathe. The silence is deafening, getting more suffocating with each second that passes in which he doesn’t agree with her. His eyes are empty, cold. 

Finally, she nods, curt, mostly to herself, lips pursed before she turns around on her heels and storms out of his office. She wipes at the tear that falls down her cheek listlessly. Clarke hopes him and his ugly wife live miserably ever after. 

.

Clarke feels kind of stupid. In hindsight, forcing Bellamy to take her virginity on a random Tuesday in his home office while his daughter was asleep upstairs wasn’t the most mature way to go about things. 

She still doesn’t think she was _wrong_ , but she could’ve done better. Maybe tell him how she feels, show him it’s not just because she’s turned on by the thought of an older, taken guy deflowering her. It’s that, but it’s also so much more. She’s had a lot of time to stew on it since then. 

Now it’s Saturday night, and Clarke hasn’t had to look after Madi on a weekend until deep into the night for something that wasn’t a work related event in a long, long time. Clarke knows she should go to sleep in their guest bedroom, or that she should at least try to close her eyes on the couch for the time being, but she can’t. She’s wide awake, waiting for them to come home. It bothers her, nags at her, not knowing where they are, what they’re doing. 

She mindlessly tries to watch tv, and then tries to read some of the novel for her mother’s book club, even entertains the wayward thought to ‘accidentally’ wake up Madi, but none of it’s enough to distract her for very long. She feels uneasy in her own skin, jittery with dread. At one point she just starts raiding their kitchen cabinets, eating everything she can get her hands on just to stay busy and ignore the feeling of doom blooming low in her belly. A feeling proven right when the two of them stumble through the door, Echo giggling gratingly. 

They’re not kissing, but they look _kissed_. Bellamy’s hair is messy, his mouth slightly red and swollen. There’s a flush down Echo’s chest, the strap of her shirt down her shoulder. Anger pricks at the back of her eyes, a hand full of popcorn frozen halfway to her mouth as she takes them in. 

At least Bellamy has the decency to look kind of guilty, rubbing the back of his neck with one of his hands. “Sorry it’s so late, Clarke.”

 _Stop saying sorry_ , she wants to yell at him, _your cunt of a wife be damned, let them all know that you’ve made me desperate, made me come, made me love you._ But then she reminds herself she has no right to feel betrayed. He never made her any promises. They’re nothing. She’s nothing. He didn’t _make_ her do anything. It was all her. 

“It’s okay, Mr. Blake,” Clarke says, quietly, turning her face away from him as she puts the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. She can’t look at him, not like this. Her cheeks feel hot, nausea quickly flooding her system. Getting up from the couch as if on auto-pilot, she wipes her hands on the back of her shorts as she starts looking around for her stuff. It feels like she’s acting frantic, her mind racing and her pulse thundering, but she’s sure she is remaining an air of cool indifference on the outside. It’s something she’s mastered over the years. 

“I can drive you home,” he offers, like an afterthought, and somehow sitting alone in a car with him for fifteen minutes is the last thing she could possibly want right now. 

“That’s okay. I rode my bike here,” she contents, tersely, her stiff back to him as she hastily stuffs her mom’s novel and her drawing pencils in her tote-bag. She needs to get away, before she does something stupid, like crying in front of them. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” Bellamy argues right back, indisputable, and now that Clarke has nothing to busy herself with, she’s forced to turn around and face them. He actually looks concerned, isn’t that funny? She reminds herself he’d do this for anyone. 

“The girl says she’s fine,” Echo bites, rolling her eyes. A snarl takes over her face as she adjusts the fallen strap on her shoulder. It’s obvious she’s not wearing a bra, and Clarke struggles to remember if she left the house like that or if maybe—

Clarke presses her lips together in a tight line, forcing a confident smile onto her face. “I’ll be fine,” she confirms, steadily, balling her fingers into fists to keep them from shaking. Her eyes burn, and she’s afraid to blink in case it causes tears to fall, and she feels so fucking stupid. She thought she didn’t have to be alone anymore. That she had a chance at having a family again. A real family. With him.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Clarke flinches, although he doesn’t notice. “I’m not letting you drive your bike home in the middle of the night,” he decides authoritatively, leaving no room for argument, narrowing his eyes briefly to make sure she knows he’s cutting the discussion short. He glances over at his wife. His stupid, ugly wife that, maybe if you squint, isn’t even _that_ unattractive. Maybe she’s actually kind of gorgeous; tall, and skinny, with lucious brown hair. “I’ll be back within half an hour.”

Echo looks irritated, but to her credit doesn’t say anything. She’s probably hoping that if she plays nice, he might still fuck her when he gets home from dropping their babysitter off. Clarke’s chest aches, right in the middle, making it hard to breathe. Maybe he will still _want_ to fuck his wife when he gets home, secretly annoyed that silly little nineteen year old Clarke is yet again derailing his plans.

Clarke follows him outside silently, standing there holding back tears as she watches him load her stupid pink bicycle into the back of his truck. They don’t speak the whole way to her house, and by the time he parks the car in front of their gate, all desire to do just that has faded too. 

The overhead dome light fades out as he cuts the engine completely. He starts by saying her name, nervously rubbing his palms over his thighs before resting them there. She doesn’t wait for more to follow. She doesn’t need an explanation, an excuse. It’s obvious already. No matter how bad his wife treats him, he’ll still never pick Clarke.

”It’s fine,” she dismisses him, cold, turning her head towards the window as she crosses her arms over her chest. Outside, pale moonlight spills over the magnolias her mom planted at the start of summer, blooming behind the fence. For whatever reason, she thought they were Clarke’s favorites. She inhales sharply, realizing for the first time she’s truly alone. 

After a moment, she hears him open his mouth. It closes again, a few more seconds before he finally does speak. “I’m sorry.”

It pisses her off, rather he not say anything at all. “You’re sorry? For what? I mean, you told me yourself.” Bitterness coats her voice, and she doesn’t care. Her eyes don’t stray from her moon-bleached garden, knowing that if she looks at him right now, she’ll break and she doesn’t want to be even more pathetic in front of him. “You don’t care about me.” Her voice trembles, despite her best efforts. “You don’t want me.”

For a moment, sitting here in the truck that smells like him as an unfamiliar tension crackles around them, she wants to go back. Back to before. Where she could sit on the kitchen counter while he put away the groceries, arguing about something stupid like double stuffed oreos or the electoral college. Where he would laugh at all her unfunny jokes, and stand up to her mother for her in front of all of Marcus’ business partners, and give her that special, stupidly soft smile for no reason. Where she could sit out on his porch watching Madi kick around a soccer ball and tell him about her dad like, for the first time, it didn’t make her want to die. Where he’d save her the last piece of pecan pie, and could stomach to look at her for longer than two seconds at a time. Easy. 

“Of course I do,” he rasps, raw, almost pleading. He must pick up on the hidden meaning of those words as well as she did, because then he corrects himself, “Of course I _care_ about you, but I’m married.” Out of the corner of her eye she can tell he’s shaking his head to himself. “You’re nineteen, and in college—”

Leaning over the console separating them, she kisses him, hard, desperate, her heart hammering in her chest. She presses a hand back against the door as Bellamy crowds into her, kissing her back just as longingly, just as eagerly. He licks against the seam of her lips, pushing his way inside, consuming her. Her seat belt digs into her collarbone harshly, and his palm is hot against her cheek, and she doesn’t think she’s ever kissed anyone like _this_. She can’t believe she’s been missing out on this her entire life, that they never did this sooner. When she pulls away, his eyes are dark. Clarke can’t look away from him, breathing hard. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t think you do either.”

His mouth glistens under the silvery light streaming in from outside, his brows drawing together. His baritone as if hanging on to his last bit of sanity, “I have a kid, a family, we—”

Running a hand through her hair, she cuts him off, almost offended, “I love Madi, you know I do.” That little girl, Clarke couldn’t imagine her life without her at this point. She doesn’t want to believe he thinks she would ever do anything to intentionally hurt her, or jeopardize her future. 

Bellamy groans, visibly aggravated, throwing his head back against the headrest briefly before turning his narrowed eyes on her, a slight shake to his head. “You know babysitting for a few hours is different from raising a child, right?” His voice is like venom, intended to hurt her. “I know this is just something you’re going to try and use against your mom, maybe stick it to Kane for replacing your dad, but I’m not willing to be a pawn in your game.”

Clarke reels back as if slapped. There’s a tense silence, and as soon as his face starts to fall and soften, she kickstarts into unfastening her seatbelt with trembling hands. She’s not upset. She’s angry. All this time, she thought he at least saw her as an adult, as an equal. Turns out he just thinks of her as some stupid little teenager, good enough to get off to a few times but not good enough to upheave his life for. 

The kicker is that she’s never _asked_ for that either. She never asked him to leave his wife, or lay his family on the line. She would be content just getting to be with him, for however much he’ll give her of his time, of him. It’s sick. _Pathetic._ She should probably see a therapist about that. 

“Clarke,” he mutters defeatedly, softer than necessary, after she fails to unbuckle it for the third time in a row. _No._ He doesn’t get to be like this with her. Desperately, she just starts yanking on it now, whimpering from the exertion, and then his hand covers hers, stilling her movements. “I shouldn’t have said that, that was wrong of me.” His thumb runs over her knuckles, his gaze burning in the side of her face. “I’m just — I’m so fucking frustrated, Clarke.” 

“Why?” For a moment, terror strikes her, mounting with every second of silence stretching between them. What if he actually loves his wife? They’re in therapy because he’s trying to make it work. Because he wants her, and he wants to stay with her and—

Bellamy cuts her off before she has the chance to spiral any further. He’s so big, so strong, and somehow in this moment, he just sounds small, brittle. “Because it’s not right, and you know it. I have a family and, and you’re so young.” She finally turns her head to look at him. His face softens impossibly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I’m _frustrated_ because I know all of that, and I still want you more than anything.”

Her knees fall open involuntarily and she sniffs, not caring how desperate she sounds. “You can have me, just take me.” Clarke looks at him with big, pleading eyes, still watery from before, her hand turning around in his grip to squeeze his. If she’s cruel for playing on his weaknesses, for pushing him like this, she’s far past the point of caring. “I _need_ you.”

“Come here,” Bellamy murmurs, patting his thigh with one hand while deftly unfastening her seatbelt with the other. Still sniffing, she does as he says, maneuvering her way over the seats and towards him, straddling his leg. It’s a tight fit, if she leans even just a few inches back the steering wheel is digging into her ass. His hand comes up to cradle her cheek, thumb swiping over her cheekbone. His usually golden brown eyes are practically black, hungry on her, reverent. “You’re so pretty, I can’t believe it sometimes.”

Clarke suddenly feels shy. Her skin flushes, her pulse stuttering as he leans forward to kiss the tops of her breasts, peeking out from the scoop neck of her top. His fingers work to undo the first few buttons, exposing more creamy, pale skin to the cool night air frigidly nipping at her skin until goose bumps form all over her body. A low, delicious pulse forms in her belly — needy, wanting. He continues to mouth at her flesh, his hands curling around her hips after she ruts against his thigh for the first time, desperate for some friction. 

“Take what you want, baby.” Suddenly, she knows what he wants her to do, what he wants to watch her do, a rush of wetness seeping from her centre. He bites at her collarbone, his voice impossibly rough, “Come on.”

Bellamy doesn’t really do anything, just lets her build up a slow grind at her own pace, but it’s enough to just have him there, hard and warm and willing beneath her. His fingers digging in the flesh of her ass, his low grunts encouraging her, his scent overwhelming her. She uses his shoulders for leverage as she presses up just slightly, the change of angle having her choke on a moan as she bows over him. Clarke basks in the way he looks at her, watching her take what she wants from him. “Mhm, just like that, baby. You’re doing so good.”

 _Baby_. It’s like his voice forms a direct line to her pulsing core, pushing her further towards the edge. Her skin heats, prickling with need, a thin layer of sweat starting to form on her forehead. Closing her eyes and throwing her head back, rocking back and forth with a slow, torturous pace that’s getting her somewhere, but not _exactly_ where she wants. Her brows furrow together in concentration, her teeth dragging over her bottom lip. 

The lining of her shorts hits her clit just right every time her hips roll over his muscular thigh, sending little shockwaves of pleasure through her system. Clarke’s so close, so close it aches. Her whole body thrums impatiently, and she doesn’t know exactly what she needs until her eyes spring open, meeting his.

“Kiss me,” she pants, begs. “Please.”

He finally does, pressing his mouth against hers for just barely a second before she’s already falling apart, tears of frustration and relief sliding down her cheeks as pleasure washes over her. Her entire body quivers, her cunt fluttering around nothing, and he tries to muffle the noises she’s making with his mouth, swallowing them until she’s too boneless to keep herself upright anymore, sagging into him with her cheek pressing against his chest. 

Bellamy pushes her damp hair away from her forehead gently, kissing the top of her head softly. “Not yet, okay?”

Finding some sudden strength, she pushes herself up, hands still trembling but her voice more than steady. “I’ve been eighteen for over a year.”

“I know.” He’s smiling, amused, boyish, the hand still on her ass squeezing her flesh softly. “I meant not here. In a car in front of your parents house.” 

Clarke hardly thinks the semantics of penetrative sex will matter this much when they've gotten each other off in plenty other ways, but she also knows she doesn’t make the most sound decisions while horny, so she ends up giving in. 

“Fine,” she concedes willingly, a bit pouty because that’s just the way she operates around him. She tries to stifle a coy smile, but knows she fails miserably just from the look on his face. “But I’ll be getting myself off to the thought of you as soon as I’m alone.” She trails his hand down his abdomen, voice husky. “Kane right down the hall.”

He groans, a short, gruff sound going straight to her core as he pulls her closer, mouth moving against the hair covering the side of her head. “Me too, baby. I’ll have to take a thirty minute cold shower as soon as I get home.”

A sudden realisation hits her, disgust rapidly pooling in her gut. Her nails dig into the forearm that’s wrapped around her waist, her shoulder pressed into his chest sideways. Even if he was just fighting himself, fighting the inevitable — “You let her kiss you.”

Bellamy doesn’t even flinch, his fingers stroking her side absentmindedly. “I was trying to... send a message.” Clearly, it didn’t work. She still won.

“Were you gonna fuck her?” She doesn’t care if she sounds like a petulant child right now, her jaw clenching as anger courses through her veins. She keeps her eyes fixated on a point just below his chin.

“No,” he blurts out, turning more serious. “I don’t give a fuck about her, Clarke.” She only really gets to enjoy the sentiment for a second before he continues, resigned, “But she’s Madi’s mom, no matter how little that means to her. Courts never favor dads, especially not ones with a criminal record—”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Clarke states, confident, her finger tips smoothing over the red marks on his forearm. Beside the fact Kane has the best lawyers in the world, or that Echo hardly looks like she’d go through the trouble, there’s no judge who’ll look at him and think he’s unfit to be a father. She refuses to believe that. “What did you do?”

He looks distracted, eyes on her chest, probably thanks to the perfect angle their positions have given him. “Huh?”

“The criminal record,” she clarifies, wondering if it’s weird she’s kind of turned on by that. 

“You really honed in on that, didn’t you?” He chuckles, darkly, the hand on her waist sliding further down her soft stomach, thumb pressing over her clit through the material of her shorts. A shiver rolls up her spine, her cunt aching. He nuzzles at the side of her face, placing a kiss on her cheek. “Just some petty stuff. Bar fights, petty theft. That was all before Kane found me.”

“That’s hot,” she breathes, swallowing hard as she squirms in his lap, trying to find a position that doesn’t make her core feel as if it’s on fire, or maybe one that’ll get rid of the newfound tension building there swiftly. He laughs against her mouth, pulling away once his hips involuntarily buck up into her ass. 

“You should go inside,” he says. “Before one of them starts to wonder what’s keeping you so long.”

Probably, _but_. Ever since her father died, her mom and she barely speak. There’s no resentment, no huge fight that lead them there, just the innate knowledge they have nothing in common besides the ghosts living in their past. Kane isn’t bad either, but he’s been more concerned with transitioning from business to politics than bonding with his stepdaughter on anything more than a surface level. They’re nice, adequate parents. They care in all the ways they should. They’ll worry when she’s out too late, ask prospective boy- or girlfriends intrusive questions when she brings them over to dinner, want her to go to a good college and have a bright future. If she were to ask them for a 10k loan out of the blue, they’d give it to her no questions asked. They are good, respectable parents, the definition of family at its core, but they’re not — him. They don’t care about what song she plays on loop if she’s sad, or take the time to explain to her why her opinion on landlords is wrong and hey, kind of make her sound like an entitled brat instead of just giving her a world-weary sigh and giving in. They don’t care she likes her pancakes best with blueberries and just a little dollop of honey. No one’s ever looked at her like she was a whole person of her own, someone who mattered despite what she is or isn’t or will never change or be, not before him. Not in a way that counts, that made her feel like she belonged.

 _But_ , if he’s not going to touch her anymore tonight, maybe it is best they go their separate ways before she implodes from sexual frustration. “Fine.” Clarke slides off his lap carefully, climbing back into the passenger seat. She reaches for the tote by her feet, giving him a teasing smile. “I’ll try my best not to be too loud coming to the thought of you.”

He stiffens briefly, a tightening in his jaw. “You’re a brat.”

“Mhmm,” she placates him, leaning back over the console to press her mouth against his. Now that she’s finally allowed to kiss him, she’s afraid she won’t ever stop. Her fingers play with the curls at the nape of his neck, and she keeps her eyes on his mouth so she doesn’t lose her courage. “This isn’t—” She trails off, not sure what to say. Just a hook-up? If she describes it as anything more than that, he might think she’s crazy. 

“It isn’t for me either.” Bellamy seems to understand anyway, reaching between them to carefully button her shirt back up. “I never allowed myself to think about you in that way. Not until you got down on your knees and took what you wanted. I haven’t been able to deny you since.” His finger comes up to trace the bridge of her nose, her heart fluttering at the reverence in his words. “My gorgeous, amazing, brilliant girl.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that either, so she kisses him. Kisses him until they’re both breathless, until a new dangerous heat starts to unfurl in her belly, until a light upstairs turns on. It’s then Clarke finally settles on, “I like being your girl. I like being yours.” They’re facts, easy to share. Objective.

“Good.” He smiles, bright and gorgeous, pecking her mouth one more time before he slaps the part where her thigh meets her ass playfully, reaching behind her to open the passenger door. Before he pulls back entirely, she finds him murmuring against her lips, “If you don’t touch yourself tonight I’ll make it worth your while next time.”

She knows it’s just a ploy to keep Kane from hearing her moan his name in the middle of the night, but she can’t find it in herself to care. After the orgasm she just had, she hardly thinks her vibrator could compare. But, she’ll play along. “I won’t,” Clarke promises, maybe a bit too eager. Knowing he sees right through her like she sees through him. That she enjoys this push and pull as much as he does. “Only you can make me come from now on.”

Bellamy snorts, shaking his head to himself as he watches her slide out of his truck. “You really are going to be trouble, huh?”

“You like it,” she taunts right back, not really in need of a confirmation. Clarke brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, innocently biting down on her lip. “Could you help me with my bike now, Mr. Blake?”

.

“I’m surprised you want to come,” her mom tells Clarke as she shows up in their foyer, dressed in a short sundress — white with tiny red and pink cherries on it — and a coat of mascara covering her eyelashes. She even put in minimal effort with her hair, pulling the sides back. 

“My friends are busy,” she shrugs, well aware that too many details will make her mom wary, not even bothering to look up from her phone. “Besides, someone will need to entertain Madi and you know how much I love chicken kebab.”

Her mom takes the excuse for what it is, probably because she doesn’t actually know whether or not Clarke loves chicken kebab, and Kane cluelessly babbles on about his campaign strategy for an upcoming mayoral election the whole way over to the Blake estate. 

Of course her parents — and thus Clarke as an extension of them — are invited to Bellamy’s annual BBQ, along with a big group of their mutual friends they mostly acquired at the company and some of his own inner circle, that despite their numbers easily fit into the huge garden attached to his home. When Abby hands over a bottle of expensive wine that probably tastes like crap and wonders where his wife is, Bellamy doesn’t even flinch. 

Clarke knew it was coming. They’ve been doing all the hard, boring stuff, putting in the work. He’s been discussing it with her for weeks, having countless conversations about logistics and responsibilities and absolute worst case scenarios, emotions generally running high, more often than not ending up with him in tears. One time it got so bad, Clarke thought it might be over, that he wouldn’t ever be able to follow through because of his paralyzing fear of losing his daughter. The breaking point was when he tried to carefully breach the subject with Madi, who simply told him okay before asking him what was for lunch in the same breath. He eventually and tentatively got Clarke’s stepdad in the loop and set up a meeting with Kane’s lawyers. 

She didn’t expect it to be today, but she had hoped. Hence, the dress. She’s never really been all that subtle with him anyway. 

Luckily no one is paying her any attention because it’s hard to hide her smile when he politely tells Abby, “She’s not here. Me and Echo, we’ve decided to get a divorce.”

Her mother blanches, exchanging a glance with her husband who doesn’t look as surprised as she’d obviously expected — a sure point of private discussion later tonight — before clearing her throat. “That’s unfortunate to hear, Bellamy. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he brushes her off, easy smile on his face, leaning his chest against his front door. “It’s for the best.” His gleaming eyes finally land on Clarke’s, darkening imperceptibly as he takes in what she’s wearing. “Everyone’s already in the back, come in.”

His fingers skim along her waist as she steps over the threshold and passes him last, sending shivers up her spine. The promise of what’s to come making her buzz with excitement. There’s a heavy weight lifted off his shoulders after years, already a difference in the way he holds himself, so much lighter and confident, and it makes her stupidly happy to see it. 

With thin, scrawny arms, Madi flies around her waist as soon as she steps foot inside the backyard, and they color at the plastic kid table set up in the back until the first of the food is served. Clarke cuts up a burger for her, and they eat on the edge of the pool, feet dipped into the cool water while Madi chatters happily about how she’s going to have two houses now. _Kids_ , so weird. 

Marcus makes everyone take a picture together near the end of afternoon, Bellamy’s friend Miller volunteering to set up the timer after her stepdad’s sixth failed attempt. There’s a lack of space when it comes to trying to fit them all in the frame, so Clarke gets away with sitting in Bellamy’s lap. Madi’s tucked under his arm from where she’s perched on top of the armrest of his loungeset, with a gap-toothed smile and little toes dangling a feet from the floor. 

Clarke feels bad, but she’s already imagining the picture making its way onto Facebook, Echo having to scroll past it, realizing exactly what she’s lost and with time, who she’s lost it to. She’s even more giddy with the thought of putting that graphic design class she took last semester to good use, cropping everyone else but the three of them out and gifting Bellamy a framed photo for his birthday in a few months. It can hang on a wall in his office.

Once the summer air has turned slightly crisp from the sun slowly starting to set behind the pink-orange horizon, Clarke tells her mom about her plans for the night. A party with Wells and some old friends from high school. It might get late, so she’ll probably just stay over at his place. No drinking, no drugs and Clarke and Wells will honor their pact to always leave together so she won’t be out alone on her bike after dark. Also a bold-faced lie, but she leaves out the last part. 

Her mom buys it, because why wouldn’t she? Clarke is the epitome of responsible. She’s never gotten detention, was a proud tattle-tale until at least the age of fourteen and on her free weekends she used to volunteer at the animal shelter downtown. 

Before leaving, she skips over to the kitchen where Bellamy is, bumping her knee against his arm as she slides up beside him at the counter. He’s crouched down, using a scoop to ladle more ice from his freezer into the silver bucket by his feet. “Hey,” he says, smiling up at her stupidly. 

“Hi.” She smiles back, although it turns into a smirk fast. It’s probably bad karma, but Clarke doesn’t really believe in that kind of stuff. She believes you can forge your own destiny, it’s why she picked him and never gave in since. “Sorry to hear about the divorce.”

He snorts, tossing the scoop into the bucket as he closes the door of the freezer. As he slowly rises to his full height, his cold fingers ghost up the back of her calf, the side of her knee, the front of her thigh. Just as he comes to a stop, now looming over her, his hand dips under the bottom of her dress, pressing at her heat with two fingers, right over the thin lace panties she wore just for him. His smirk grows, applying more pressure. “Are you now?”

“Devastated,” she manages to croak out after biting down a gasp, basking in the way the corners of his mouth turn up even more. Clarke can only stand there, one hand gripping the counter as she stares up at him. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing. “Does this mean you’ll take my virginity now, Mr. Blake?”

He pulls his hand away abruptly, and even though she misses the pressure instantly, she still feels like she’s won. Flustered, Bellamy checks to see if no one overheard, his voice low. “You’re crazy.”

She inches closer, so their chests are practically flush together, challenging him. “You still want me.”

He doesn’t answer, but she can tell she’s right by the way his jaw clenches, his eyes spark with desire. Bellamy sniffs, once. “Madi is sleeping over at Octavia’s house.”

She smiles, falling back. “Good.”

Clarke hums a song under her breath as she hides her bike in his garage, her old purple school bag slung over her shoulder with a change of clothes for the morning. Afterwards, she carefully sneaks upstairs to the master bedroom. There, she patiently waits, picking up the half-read book on his nightstand to pass the time. 

The book — _These Violent Delights_ — is actually quite good, allowing her to tune out the cacophony of voices mixing with low, old people music downstairs. By the time the door squeaks open, she’s eight chapters deep, on her stomach with her bare feet kicked up, facing the end of the bed. 

Clarke looks up, eyebrows raised as her eyes flick over her shoulder to the clock on his bedside table. It’s nearly 1 am. “Took you long enough.”

He falls down on the edge of the bed beside her with a tired grunt, running his fingers down her spine. “I kept trying to get everyone to leave but they just continued drinking.” He rests his warm hand on the small of her back, sighing loudly. “I eventually ended up making up an excuse about an on-coming migraine.”

She rolls over onto her back so she can look at him, propping herself up on her elbows. Pointedly, she arches one of her brows. “I hope you’re not planning on using that one on me.”

Over the weeks, they’ve continued their little adventures. Just stolen moments here and there, a quick handjob under the kitchen table, or pulling her into his poolhouse to get her off with his mouth. She wanted more, kept _pushing_ for more, but he always told her no. It was the one thing he wouldn’t compromise on. He kept saying he wanted to do it right, and Clarke kept rolling her eyes at him until she released he meant he didn’t want to be someone’s husband when it finally happened, he just wanted to hers. He was kind of an old-fashioned dick in that sense, she guesses. Kind of romantic too, though.

His eyes twinkle almost mischievously as he kneads her leg with his strong fingers, sending a thrill through her body. “Desperate, aren’t you?”

Clarke huffs, but her breathing speeds up nonetheless. “I’ve only begged for weeks.”

His hand pulls off her knee to pat his lap, and she instantly misses the warm weight. “Get over here.”

“Wait,” she says, leaning over the side of the bed to rummage through her bag, pulling out a glossy red envelope. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she hands it over to him, now sitting up. “Here.”

He eyes her warily, running his thumb over the shiny material. He’s incapable of letting other people do nice things for him. “What’s this?”

“It’s not a physical representation of my v-card if that’s what you think.” She jostles his knee with her hand when he doesn’t even crack a smile. “Just open it.”

Bellamy rips open the top half messily, tugging out white card that on the front says a ‘ _happy divorce day_ ’ in fancy script. She got it off Etsy for a buck, thought it was funny. Looking at him now, the blank look on his face as he reads the ‘ _I’m proud of you xx C_ ’ in her neat scrawl on the inside, she thinks maybe it’s just childish.

“You hate it?”

“I don’t.”

“Too soon?”

“A long time coming.” He gives her a smile that makes her feel like it’s all going to be okay, and a relieved breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding pushes it’s way past her lips. Bellamy leans over to carefully tuck the card away inside the drawer of his nightstand. “Very tasteful,” he teases.

Clarke crawls closer to him, sliding her arms around his neck. “Well, it was either this or ‘ _congrats on the sex_ ’, but that felt a little bit presumptious.”

“Presumptuous?” He echoes, all skepticism, tugging on the bottom of her flowy skirt. 

She presses her lips together to keep from smirking too smugly at the fact he noticed. “Do you like it?”

“I like you in everything, baby,” he admits, moving her hair away from her chest and brushing it back over her shoulder. Her lips part in anticipation, relishing in his touch, and his thumb swipes over her jaw before dropping back into his lap. His eyes soften, a gentleman as always. “We don’t have to do anything tonight.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, leaning all her weight against him until he gives in, laying back. The book clatters to the floor somewhere behind her. She considers going easy on him, but instead does the exact opposite, knowing how crazy it drives him. “I’m on the pill right now but once I finish college I could stop. See where it goes.” She nips at his jaw, playful. “I think Madi would make a really good big sister.”

His eyebrows shoot up, freezing beneath her. He can’t hide how wrecked he sounds, not from her. “Don’t you think you’re moving a little fast?”

She scoffs. “You divorced your wife for me.”

“I didn’t divorce her _just_ for you—” He begins to protest.

She kisses him, relentless. Sucking his bottom lip into her mouth until he grunts, loving the thought of kissing him so hard, it bruises. When she pulls back, she’s glaring at him, digging her thumb in the little cleft in his chin. “Don’t lie to me.”

His gaze turns almost pained, too many things between them left unsaid, too delicate to breach this early on in their relationship, too heavy, too fast, too much, too unfathomable and nebulous for just two people, and yet she still delights in the little click in his throat. He feels it, just as she does — this draw, this connection, this crackle of tension in the air every time they’re in the same room. “What do you want me to say?”

Clarke inches forward again, dragging his lip between her teeth this time before soothing over the sting with a soft peck. “I think we’re done talking.”

He nods against her, hands sliding up the side of her thighs to her hips, dragging up her dress in the proces. “Let’s take this off, huh, pretty girl?”

She leans back enough so he can tug it up her body, obediently lifting her arms into the air. Her nipples immediately pebble, straining against the material of her lacy powder blue bra. “God, look at you,” he groans, immediately palming her breasts with both hands after tossing her dress aside carelessly. Bellamy kisses the spot on her neck where her pulse is fluttering erratically, matching panties quickly growing damp. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, I can’t get enough of you.”

Flipping them over, he immediately starts to mouth his way down to her pulsing heat. Over the material of her panties, he gives her throbbing pussy a little affectionate peck before surprising her, pushing them aside just enough for him to sink a finger inside of her, right up to his second knuckle, then easily adding another. Clarke stifles a loud moan by biting on her balled fist, before realizing she doesn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing them, that she can be as loud as she wants tonight, and just letting it spill from her lips anyway.

Bellamy usually likes to take his time, even when they have anything but. Kiss her for a while. Stroke her everywhere but where she wants him to. Tease her, work her up slowly before he puts his mouth on her. This time he seems too impatient, too greedy. 

“Been too long,” he murmurs longingly, almost as if reading her mind, nipping at the soft skin on the inside of her thigh before licking into her, warm and wet. Clarke chokes on a moan, arching slightly off the mattress.

When he looks up at her, she can tell his pupils are blown even from all the way up by the headboard, holding eye-contact as he sucks her clit into his mouth at the same time as he strokes and crooks his fingers up into that special spot that always leaves her breathless. Her knuckles whiten from the grip she has on his hair with one, his dark sheets with the other. _Fuck_.

It doesn’t take him long to build her up, lapping at her folds like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, fingers slamming into her roughly, circling the place she’s most sensitive with the tip of his tongue. Telling her how good she tastes, how pretty she sounds, how he could do this for hours and hours, watching her come and come and come. Just him and her, the two of them. And God, does she realize how hard she makes him? He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard before. 

Clarke feels like she can’t catch her breath, right there on the edge, thrashing against the sheets, bucking up into his mouth. Her core prickles with pleasure, slowly unfurling in her abdomen, it’s not enough, but it’s right there, right there, so close she can almost grasp it. 

He pulls back from her, sudden, breath hot against her sensitive cunt. Her hips chase his mouth unconsciously and completely uselessly, Bellamy staving her off easily. “You want to come?”

All Clarke can do is hum in agreement, eyes squeezed shut tightly while she vehemently nods, mussing up her hair against the pillow. Then he stills his hand, too, pressing his other down on her lower belly to keep her in place. His baritone turns dark, making her try to squeeze her knees together involuntarily. “Say it.”

She’s too far gone, so just whines, pouting. “Let me come.”

He pinches one of her nipples through her bra, hard, the pain a direct link to her clit as her cunt clenches down around his fingers, as if trying to get him to do something. She tries to move again, fuck herself on his hand, but he tuts, a reprimand, holding her down firmer. “Ask nicely, baby.”

Clarke’s eyelids are finally able to flutter open long enough to meet his hungry brown eyes, cheeks warm, perspiration covering her forehead. Her pussy throbs painfully, and she squirms beneath him, desperate. “I wanna come, please, please, please, just let me come.”

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he cooes, proudly, sliding the hand on her stomach down to pat her mound. It’s right over the little knot of nerves, making her twitch. She thinks she might still be saying please, delirious at this point, and then his fingers finally move, wet sounds filling the room. “Just like that.”

Bellamy fastens his pace, two fingers from his other hand pressing down hard, and then she finally breaks, hot white pleasure ripping through her core and dripping off his fingers. Her back arches, her toes curling into the mattress, chanting his name. _Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy._

Once she comes back to her senses, a thick heavy blanket of bliss seems to be weighing her down. It’s hard, but she manages to lift up one of her lead arms, grabbing for him. 

“Come up here,” she demands, tugging on his hair meanly with the hand still buried in his messy curls, even though she’s reeling from what he just did to her. Her skin feels tight, and uncomfortable, and she just wants to feel him, close. 

Bellamy obeys, crawling up the bed to cover her body with his. He’s warm and heavy, but it’s not enough. He smiles at her in equal amounts of amusement and fondness as she curls her fingers into his shirt, tugging once before she orders, “Off.” Her voice is hoarse, her body too tired and oversensitive to form any more words.

“Bossy,” he teases, but he still complies. He tosses his shirt aside, lowering himself back on top of her as he writhes his hand behind her back to unclip her bra. She’s just dead weight, but he manages, moving the straps down her arms in no time. “Are you trying to call the shots now, baby?”

She sighs, their bare chest flush against each other, hands limply clasping his sides. This is better. Nice. Clarke blinks open her tired eyes, finding his already on her, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I always have, Mr. Blake.”

His eyes flash and then he kisses her, and this kiss doesn’t even feel like a kiss, more like melting into him, becoming a part of each other. Neither of them move for a long moment, just the soft press of their lips together, making warmth pool in her lower belly. He lifts off her, and then it twists, filling with dread instead.

All this time she’s been trying to tell herself this isn’t really that much different from using their hands or mouths, that virginity is just a social construct meant to shame and repress female sexuality, that anxiety is a fickle vestigial thing and she’s so much stronger than that, but now that it’s actually happening, now that they’re half-naked and the initial bliss has started to wear off — nerves are settling in, taking root and making her heart leap into her throat. What if it hurts? What if she doesn’t like it? What if she’s not any good at it and he never wants to touch her again?

Clarke doesn’t want to tell him, afraid she'll scare him off, or make him change his mind. What if he thinks she doesn’t trust him? Apparently he can tell just from looking at her, the sudden tension in her muscles, the way her brows are drawn together pensively. His thumb strokes over her browbone, trying to smooth out the worried wrinkles. “Hey,” he rasps, so soft it makes a surge of affection rise inside of her. “We can stop whenever, okay? Just say the word.”

“I want to,” she says, and finds she means it. Despite her nerves, she feels safe, ready. Her tone is insistent, already preparing for argument.

“And you always get what you want, don’t you?” Bellamy declares, sharply, before his eyes quickly soften, wetting his lips as he looks at her, reminding her, “Just, don’t move too fast. Go slow. Let me know what feels good, what doesn’t.”

Somehow she thinks it’s impossible for anything with him not to feel good, but she also knows on a deeper, less horny and lovesick level that girls’ first times are usually uncomfortable. She just wants to get through it, so they can get to the good part. They part where she can have him any time she wants, however she wants to.

Bellamy gets off her to shuck his pants and boxers, kicking them off somewhere to the side. She’s so busy staring at his cock — hard, and _so much_ , and already dripping at the tip — she jolts when he taps her on the hip. She gets the hint, lifting them up so he can drag her panties down her legs. He sits on the edge of the bed with his back to her, her fingers inching toward his lower back, desperate to be touching him in some way at all times. Reaching inside of his nightstand, he gets out a condom, gold wrapper luminous in the dimmed light. 

She starts shaking her head, covering his hand with hers as he shifts, one knee resting on the bed. He gives her a puzzled look that makes her stomach do a little swoop. “I wanna feel you.”

“We shouldn’t.” His admonishing reply is instant, almost as if trying to convince himself as much as her. He half-heartedly mentioned to her he would get tested weeks ago, just to be safe, and she has told him — countless of times — she’s on the pill, so she doesn’t get the big deal. She wants all of him. Every part Echo got, she wants too. 

“I trust you,” Clarke promises, a near whine, knowing exactly what he needs to hear. “Please.”

His fingers tighten around the wrapper for a moment as he looks at her and then off to the left, jaw tight. Then, he gives in, tossing it back into the drawer and climbing back on top of her, because of course he does. She’s his baby and she said ‘please’, he’s got no leg to stand on.

Bellamy offers her his palm, which she licks without any explicit orders to do so, and his hand disappears in between them so he can pump his cock a few times. When that doesn’t prove to be enough, because there’s _a lot_ of him, he supports his weight on a fist before leaning back over her to grab a tube from the same drawer the condom was in. He squirts some of the transparent liquid into his hand, working it into his length before swirling his fingers through the remainder of it, pushing them inside of her. Clarke lets out a little squeak at the cold sensation, digging her sharp nails into his shoulder blades. 

If he’d asked her, she would’ve been kind of offended by the suggestion to use lube, something they never do in all the porn videos she’s been watching in preparation, as if she couldn’t get wet enough for him. She’s kind of glad he just did it, taking the decision for her and seeming no less turned on by it. 

She clings onto all her earlier bravado desperately, only gulping a little as she looks down at where his dick is resting against her slit, wondering how she’s going to do this. Either she’s too easy to read, or their psychic connection kicks back in, because Bellamy rubs his hands up her sides soothingly, encouragingly her sweetly, “You got this, pretty girl.”

Clarke pulls him down for a reassuring kiss, one that quickly turns filthy, teeth and tongue and a lot of heavy breathing, gasping into his mouth when his cock first nudges at her entrance. He starts pushing inside slowly, stretching her walls open wide and as if on instinct, she pulls him closer, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. It burns, and then it _really_ burns, and then it’s a stinging sensation that offers no real relief in the sense that it’s constant. 

“Breathe,” he tells her, quietly, and she realizes she’s shaking now, entire body pulled tight. Once she sucks in a sharp breath, it’s better. The sting has kind of started to dull now, replaced by some light throbbing, and she pulls in another deep breath, inhaling his scent. She reminds herself this is Bellamy, and he’s inside of her, and it’s going to feel really good at one point. It has to. 

“You’re doing so good, baby. We’re halfway there,” he reminds her, ducking his head to press an affectionate kiss to the top of one of her heaving breasts, and Clarke feels just a tiny flare of panic at the thought of having to take more, already feeling like she’s being split right in half. His skin is slick with sweat now, his arms shaking with the exertion of holding back, and she wants to do this for him, but she’s not sure she can. 

But then there’s one more push of his hips and he’s sliding home, head bumping against what she thinks is her cervix, the sudden pressure of it making her twitch below him. The throbbing has mostly dimmed into something that’s more discomfort than pain, and she finds it’s easier to breathe now, knowing she’s had all of him. 

Bellamy kisses the corner of her mouth, finding her blue eyes. One of his hands comes up to wipe at something wet on her cheeks she hadn’t even realized was there, a flash of pain crossing his own gaze. He doesn’t like hurting her. “You okay?” He checks, voice like gravel. 

She finds she really _is_ feeling sort of okay, that really, at this point, she’s had period cramps worse than this, and what she really wants is for him to start moving. Which he obviously won’t do until he gets verbal confirmation she isn’t dissociating, so she forces herself to speak, thick from the tears, “Good.” Then at lack of words to be better to describe what she wants, dips out her tongue to wet her salty lips, and then tacks on another little, “Please.”

Slowly, he starts pulling out of her, and then it hurts again when he thrusts back in, but less this time, which is good, and then his hand comes in between them to rub tight, little circles around her clit _while_ he moves, pushing up her knees, and then it’s great, so fucking great, she needs more. Her heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him on, and her heart pounds loudly as she chases the familiar feeling simmering lowly in her core, spreading intense heat through her body. 

“Baby,” he murmurs against her lips, dragging his teeth over her bottom lip to get her full attention. He sounds breathless, “How you doing?” 

“Full,” she replies, blinking open her eyes to look at him. It still burns, but there’s also a more delicious ache, an ache right in the middle of her centre, overpowering it, wanting to feel every inch of him. She moans as his cock moves over a particularly sensitive spot, her lungs stuttering. “So full.”

“Touch yourself for me,” he commands, lowering his head until his hair tickles her chin and he can suck a mark into the flesh of her breast that he can reach. Clarke palms a mound with one hand, and she figures it’s mostly for his benefit, but when she rolls on one of the pebbled buds between her fingers, her legs twitch and she’s that much closer to release. “Mhmm, just like that. You look so sexy like that, baby. Go on.” He seems to know her better than she knows herself, pride making her glow from within. 

Her breath hitches as she feels the sparks in her lower belly slowly build up into a searing sensation, their sweat-slick skin gliding together, and she feels so hot, so full, so close — he shifts lightly, dropping her leg, and her face scrunches up as the fire licking at her insides goes back to barely a smoldering warmth. 

Clarke remembers what he told her, shaking her head a little. She wants to be good for him. “No, no, wait, go back. To before. I liked before.” He groans lowly, grabbing a hold of the back of her knee, pushing it back up. His cock drags right over that special spot like this, thick fingers still insistent on the bundle of nerves at the top of folds, and, “ _Yes_ , exactly like that.”

Her eyes roll back into her head, abandoning her breast to force him back down to her mouth, fingers curling into his dark hair. She swallows hard, panting into his mouth more than actually kissing him. Another jolt of pleasure up her spine, and she digs her thumb harder into his chin, a strangled moan tearing from her lips. “Can I — can I come?”

Bellamy grunts in her mouth, his hips stuttering against hers. “Yes, baby.” He nuzzles at her cheek, the side of her nose. “Come for me.”

The fiery feeling explodes, pleasure bursting over her entire body as she comes, hard. Keeps coming, another small but intense wave of release cresting over her as he swells, spilling inside her, too. And, as stars burst behind her eyelids, her entire body shaking, trembling, _God,_ she thinks, _yes, I love him_. She thinks she’ll tell him, as soon as he’s ready to hear it. 

They hold each other for a long moment, catching their breath. “Sorry,” he mutters, preemptively, sliding out of her. “It’ll be worse if I wait.”

Clarke moans at the loss, soreness overshadowing the void taking the place of his cock, tightening her knees around his hips, but to her disappointment he doesn’t scold her for being a brat. He’s too distracted looking down at her slit, his spent dripping from her onto the damp sheets. 

She jerks, still oversensitive, as he collects the stickiness at her entrance, pushing it back inside before bringing two fingers to her mouth. She opens obediently, licking the heady taste off his fingers as she holds his gaze, entirely black at this point. Clarke isn’t a fan of the taste of anyone’s cum, and she can’t say his tastes any better or worse, but she’s a fan of _him,_ of being his, of having all of him, and the strangled noise he makes watching her do it. 

Bellamy gives her a sweet smile, kissing her forehead. “I’m just going to grab a washcloth, okay?”

 _No._ “Not yet,” she rasps, almost alarmed at the thought of being alone, even for just a few seconds, pulling him back down. “We can take a shower in a minute, right?” He can wash her hair, tease her for hogging the spray. It’ll be warm, nice.

“Okay,” he concedes, quietly, rolling off her with a sigh as he writhes an arm around her shoulders, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. She crushes her cheek to his chest, his heart fluttering rapidly under her ear. “We can do that, baby.”

A comfortable silence wraps around them, warm skin pressed together, and then he suddenly finds her hand in the middle between them, pressing it to his mouth. “Thanks,” he says, still breathing harder than normal. 

Clarke props her chin onto his sternum, raising her eyebrows. “I picked you over some overeager teenage fratboy to avoid this whole being thanked for having sex thing.” It makes it sound so transactional, weird. 

“No,” he chuckles, a low rumble vibrating through his chest. He’s not looking at her, instead he’s looking at the ceiling, still dragging his fingertips up and down her bicep. “I’m grateful for that, too, believe me, I just meant — I kind of checked out, you know? I figured this was my life now, that it was all I deserved. That I was lucky I didn’t have it worse.”

She presses even closer to him. “I hate that you see yourself like that, like some terribly bad person who deserved to be treated like that.”

His jaw clenches, brief, a strangely bitter tone to his words. “Look at where we are right now, Clarke.”

“No. Don’t do that.” She refuses. No, she _rejects_ it. “Don’t get into your own head and convince yourself this is something bad simply because it’s something you want for yourself and you don’t know how to do that.”

“I uprooted Madi’s entire life, it’s selfish.” His face shutters with disgust, fingers digging into her arm now. Not enough to hurt, but enough to tell her he needs it to feel grounded right now. “What kind of father does that?”

Clarke frowns, using his breastbone for leverage to push herself up, trying to kiss away the downwards curve of the corners of his mouth. “A kind of father who wants his daughter to grow up believing they don’t have to suffer for others,” another to his sharp, freckled cheekbone, “that their own happiness isn’t subservient to that of anyone else,” his brow bone, pained brown eyes fluttering shut, “that sometimes being a little selfish is okay.” His face starts to slacken just a tiny bit under her ministrations, eyelashes brushing against her forehead as she presses her lips against his mouth with a long, final, dry kiss. “A kind of father who’s good.”

He lets out a drawn out sigh, brushing some hair from her eyes. “I don’t know where you got all of these ideas in that beautiful brain of yours.” He’s no longer fighting her, so at least that’s good. Maybe he doesn’t believe her yet, but he will. She’ll make sure of it. “No regrets yet?”

“No,” she shakes her head, lips a tight line. She arches a brow, “You?”

“No,” he echoes, sincere. “I’m —“ Bellamy’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, nervous in a way she’s never seen him before. “Just not entirely sure how to do this.”

It’s kind of cute, the tips of his ears redder than she’s ever seen them. He’s trying to let her down politely, as if realistically she didn’t already know that they should keep this on the down low for now. A delicious thrill runs through her body at the thought. 

Clarke can imagine it already. Sneaking around, lying to everyone and almost getting caught way too many times because they’re just too desperate to get each other’s clothes off. Sending him racy pictures to tease him, steamy messages to make him miss her even more. She’ll try to make him jealous by going out to parties she has no interest in, with boys and girls she has even less interest in, leaving them high and dry so she can call Bellamy before going to sleep alone in her dorm room bed. And at one point Kane, or maybe even her mom, will try to set him up with some new, pliant potential wife that looks nothing like Clarke, and has a perfect creditscore, and doesn’t swallow, and then Clarke will come for a long weekend just to fuck his brains out and remind him who he belongs to. It’ll be fun. 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Blake,” she teases, slinging one leg over his hip so she’s straddling him, hands on his chest for support. As she bends down, her hair a curtain around them, she whispers huskily, “I’m not going to tell.” 

Instead of the heated look she was expecting, he’s looking at her all affectionately, fond in a way that makes her still sticky pussy clamp around nothing. “I want you to, I mean that. I want everybody to know you’re mine.” Clarke’s breath hitches quietly in the back of her throat, even as she tries to stifle the sound. His mouth opens, then closes, regretful look on his face as his forehead wrinkles. “I, just maybe not — not right now.”

“We can do the whole long distance, sneaking around thing for a few years. Sounds kind of hot.” She licks a stripe up his neck, biting at the hard line of hard jaw. He bands an arm around her back, easily lifting the both of them up so he’s sitting up against the headboard. Pink lips moving against his skin as she tells him, “Now that you’re a single dad you’re—”

His eyebrows shoot up, his mouth twitching. “You’re making it sound like we killed her.”

“We should have,” she cuts in innocently, rolling her hips against his pelvis. 

“Clarke,” he chasitises with a groan, throwing his head back, but he doesn’t sound all that offended.

“As a single dad,” she restarts, pointedly, pecking his adam’s apple softly. “You’re obviously going to need a lot of help.”

Bellamy’s hands slide from her back to her ass, squeezing tightly as he rises his head back up to look at her. Completely unfazed and rather amused, “And I bet you’re going to be happy to help. Put your hands-on approach to good use.”

“Hmm,” she pretends to consider it, trailing her hand down his chest teasingly. His abdomen twitch under her fingertips, making her stifle a smirk. “Not sure if I shouldn’t just move on to a different employer. You know, branch out my network. Start saving some more money.”

Clarke yelps as he suddenly moves the both of them, holding her to him tightly as he swings his legs off the edge of the bed. Darkly, he flashes, “We can definitely discuss a raise of wages.”

She keeps her face blank, voice all business even as she undulates her pelvis, leaving a wet spot on his thigh. “A raise, more benefits, _and_ a change of job title.” 

His hand snakes in between them, lightly brushing over the curls at the apex of her thighs before tapping her clit teasingly. Dryly, “You’re gonna need this in writing?”

It’s completely ridiculous, but she’s already panting, pulsing with need. “The job title will just be for us.” Letting out a little squeak from her parted lips as he presses down harder, watching her intently. “Girlfriend.”

His movements still, eyes narrowing slowly. “You’re so spoiled, you know that, right, baby?”

She shrugs, cutely. Of course she does. Just like she knows he loves spoiling her. “Shower?”

Bellamy’s smirk widens, rising to his feet with her in his arms. “Shower.”

As he lathers her hair up with shampoo and softly kisses the wet skin of her neck, all Clarke feels is the sweet satisfaction of a long-awaited victory. As he gently towels her body dry and helps pull one of his old t-shirts over her head, she realizes she’s never cared about anyone else like this before, this all-consuming, intense, and somehow calming burning feeling deep in her chest that’s really too heavy to even try and start to verbalize, no words descriptive enough to explain it. And as he laughs at the way her stomach grumbles and teasingly murmurs against her mouth about how he saved her a piece of pecan pie, too busy smiling to even really call it kissing, she _knows_ he feels it too. 

Their time will come, and until then — there’s plenty of fun to be had.

.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> serve? slay? swaggie? maybe a bit too fucked up between the lines but you weren't literary expressive enough about it for me to complain about? discuss below!


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